The rain was relentless by the time Stella got home that evening. She sat in her car for a long moment, listening to the rhythmic patter on the windshield. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, the image of Derek's photo burned into her mind—the claw marks, the blood, the undeniable possibility that she had been the one to leave them.

She shut her eyes and tried to breathe, but the doubt wouldn't let her go. What if I'm losing control? What if Derek's right?

"Stella?" Scott's voice startled her. He was standing in the doorway, a concerned look on his face. "You okay?"

Stella forced herself to nod. "Yeah. Long day." She grabbed her bag and joined him inside, brushing past his worried gaze. She could feel him watching her as they climbed the stairs to their rooms, but thankfully, he didn't press.

Inside her room, she paced restlessly. She couldn't tell Scott. He had enough on his plate trying to balance his own control, and he didn't need her unraveling on top of that. But the thought of keeping this bottled up twisted her stomach into knots.

She pulled out her phone and stared at her contact list. Without thinking, her finger hovered over Stiles's name. She hesitated, chewing her lip. Stiles had been her rock last night. He'd pulled her back when she felt like she was slipping away. If there was anyone who might understand, it was him.

Before she could second-guess herself, she hit call.

Stiles arrived twenty minutes later, still in his lacrosse hoodie, his hair damp from the rain. "You sounded freaked," he said, stepping into her room. "What's going on?"

Stella sat on the edge of her bed, wringing her hands. She hadn't planned out what to say—just that she couldn't sit with her thoughts alone any longer. "Something happened," she began, her voice shaky. "And I… I don't know if it was me."

Stiles tilted his head, his usual humor replaced by quiet concern. "What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath and explained everything: Derek's photo, the claw marks, the blood, and the terrifying possibility that she had blacked out and done it without remembering. By the time she finished, her hands were trembling.

"I swear I went straight home after training," she said, her voice breaking. "But what if I didn't? What if I hurt someone, Stiles?"

Stiles crouched in front of her, his hands resting on her knees to steady her. "Hey," he said softly. "Listen to me. You didn't do this."

"You don't know that," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "What if I'm lying to myself?"

"Stella." His voice was firmer now, his brown eyes locked on hers. "I know you. You fight harder than anyone I've ever met to stay in control. If something had happened, you would've felt it."

Her breath hitched, and she searched his face for any trace of doubt. There wasn't any. Stiles believed in her—completely. And somehow, that belief made her feel a little steadier.

"I don't know what's going on," Stiles continued, his voice gentler now. "But we're going to figure it out. Together. Okay?"

She nodded slowly, the knot in her chest loosening just enough for her to breathe again. "Okay."

The next day at school, Stella felt more grounded, though the lingering fear hadn't fully left her. She stuck close to Scott and Stiles, finding solace in their presence. But as the day wore on, something else began to gnaw at her—the feeling of being watched.

It started in first period, when she caught Lydia glancing her way from across the room. Then during lunch, Jackson's eyes lingered on her longer than usual, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. Stella clenched her jaw, ignoring it, but the tension only grew.

By the time the final bell rang, she was ready to confront someone—anyone. As she stuffed her books into her locker, Lydia appeared beside her, a perfectly arched eyebrow raised.

"Rough day?" Lydia asked, her tone light but curious.

"What do you want, Lydia?" Stella asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Lydia tilted her head, as if studying her. "You've been… different lately," she said, her voice dropping just enough to make it clear she wasn't talking about academics. "And you're not exactly subtle."

Stella froze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," Lydia said, a sly smile playing at her lips. "Just… be careful, Stella. People notice more than you think."

Before Stella could respond, Lydia walked away, leaving her heart racing. What does she know? The question repeated in her mind, and dread settled in her stomach. If Lydia was noticing something, how long before someone like the Argents did too?

That night, Stella met with Scott and Stiles at the Preserve to investigate the claw marks Derek had shown her. The air was damp and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth. Derek stood silently nearby, watching as Stella ran her fingers over the claw marks in the tree.

"Still think it was me?" she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Derek didn't answer immediately. "I don't know," he admitted. "But if it wasn't you, then we have a bigger problem."

"What kind of problem?" Scott asked.

Derek's expression darkened. "Another werewolf. One we don't know."

Stiles groaned. "Because things weren't complicated enough already."

Stella stepped back, her heart sinking. The thought of another rogue werewolf in Beacon Hills sent a chill down her spine. If it wasn't her who had lost control, then someone else had—and that someone might still be out there.

"We'll find them," Scott said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. "And we'll stop them before they hurt anyone."

Stella nodded, though the fear in her chest remained. She didn't know who—or what—they were dealing with, but one thing was clear: this fight wasn't over.

And deep down, she wasn't sure she was ready for what came next.